“Well, Dannie,” he drawled, in a way so plaintive that I found no answer to his argument, “I is a fool. I’m told so every day, by men an’ maids, wherever I goes; an’ I jus’ can’t help bein’ foolish.”
“God made you,” said I.
“An’ mother always ’lowed,” said Moses, “that He knowed what He was up to. An’, Dannie,” says he, “she always ’lowed, anyhow, that she was satisfied.”
’Twas of a Sunday evening––upon the verge of twilight: with the light of day still abroad, leaving the hills of Twin Islands clear-cut against the blue sky, but falling aslant, casting long shadows. Came, then, straggling from the graveyard in the valley by Thunder Head, the folk of our harbor. ’Twas all over, it seemed; they had buried old Tom Hossie. Moses and I sat together on the hill by Old Wives’ Cove, in the calm of the day and weather: there was no wind stirring––no 183 drip of oar to be heard, no noise of hammer, no laughter of children, no cry or call of labor. They had buried old Tom Hossie, whom no peril of that coast, savagely continuing through seventy years, had overcome or daunted, but age had gently drawn away. I had watched them bear the coffin by winding paths along the Tickle shore and up the hill, stopping here to rest and there to rest, for the way was long; and now, sitting in the yellow sunshine of that kind day, with the fool of Twist Tickle for company, I watched them come again, their burden deposited in the inevitable arms. I wondered if the spirit of old Tom Hossie rejoiced in its escape. I wondered if it continued in pitiable age or had returned to youth––to strength for action and wish for love. I wondered, with the passionate curiosity of a lad, as I watched the procession of simple folk disperse, far off, to supper and to the kisses of children, if the spirit of old Tom Hossie had rather sail the seas he had sailed and love the maids of our land or dwell in the brightest glory painted for us by the prophets. I could, then, being a lad, conceive no happier world than that in which I moved, no joy aside from its people and sea and sunlight, no rest apart from the mortal love of Judith; but, now, grown older, I fancy that the spirit of old Tom Hossie, wise with age and vastly weary of the labor and troublous delights of life, hungered and thirsted for death.
The church bell broke upon this morbid meditation.
“Hark!” says Moses. “’Tis the first bell.”
’Twas a melodious call to worship––throbbing sweetly 184 across the placid water of our harbor, beating on, liquidly vibrant, to rouse the resting hills of Twin Islands.
“You’ll be off, Moses?”
“Ay,” says he; “for mother always ’lowed ’twas good for a man t’ go t’ church, an’ I couldn’t do nothin’, Dannie, that mother wouldn’t like. I seem, lad, t’ hear her callin’, in that bell. ‘Come––dear!’ says she, ‘Come––dear! Come––dear!’ Tis like she used t’ call me from the door. ‘Come, dear,’ says she; ‘you’ll never be hurt,’ says she, ‘when you’re within with me.’ So I ’low I’ll go t’ church, Dannie, where mother would have me be. ‘You don’t need t’ leave the parson scare you, Moses,’ says she; ‘all you got t’ do, dear,’ says she, ‘is t’ remember that your mother loves you. You’re so easy to scare, poor lad!’ says she; ‘but never forget that’ says she, ‘an’ you’ll never be feared o’ God. In fair weather,’ says she, ‘a man may need no Hand t’ guide un; but in times o’ trouble,’ says she, ‘he’ve jus’ got t’ have a God. I found that out,’ says she, ‘jus’ afore you was born an’ jus’ after I knowed you was a fool. So I ’low, Moses,’ says she, ‘you’d best go t’ church an’ make friends with God, for then,’ says she, ‘you’ll not feel mean t’ call upon Him when the evil days comes. In times o’ trouble,’ says mother, ‘a man jus’ can’t help singin’ out for aid. An’ ’tis a mean, poor man,’ says she, ‘that goes beggin’ to a Stranger.’ Hark t’ the bell, Dannie! Does you not hear it? Does you not hear it call the folk t’ come?”
’Twas still ringing its tender invitation.